Three hours in the countryside

I had been playing Black & White¹ all night long. Spells & magic in B&W come in little transparent globules. So when the dream started with me walking into a bush with little wishes sprouting thickly all over it, it felt as natural as day. How else could it be?

So I popped one and (here, gasp, how bloody predictable) wished a woman like the one I first fell in love with would turn up. Naturally, this being the stuff dreams are made of, it didn't happen, yet also with a twist. Out of a vegetable epiphany involving primarily a sliced green pepper (capsicum) emerged three bitchy ex-queens of England in their princess stage, slightly dazed from the transformation, and of course, bitching. I'm absolutely sure I recognized them, and I'll be damned if I can tell you who they were.

But it was already late evening. A huge car turned up, shaped somewhat like a cross between a Silver Ghost and that fur covered excrescence from Dumb & Dumber. Its appeal was further bolstered by the fact that it was coloured a vivid yellow, the colour I believe is called gamboge. Out stepped a fat oafish member of the nobility and grumbled a greeting. The butler, square, ushered us into the automobile, and we drove off down a typically european small town road, which shortly turned into curved and winding streets past tightly spaced houses. And through gates, lots of gates, that some crazy city planners had built on the streets. It was raining (my best hated weather), and I remember thinking that I've never seen snowfall (it's true, I've never) when the top of the car opened, and the cold cold water started pricking my face. The gang, by now over their pale attitudes, heard about my sad loss, and started cheering for the rain to morph into snow. It didn't, of course. Looking up from a swaying car amidst screaming girls, I found the raindrops gradually freezing as they came down, and we were pelleted by little ice droplets, like a shower soporific, only reversed in effect. I have never enjoyed the rain more.

Gates, the ones that drop down from castle entrances and not the ones that split open, clanged shut as we passed, courtesy no doubt of those same mad architects that created the yellow automobile and the rest of this dream. Indeed, it almost felt like we were rushing to get through them, and one of them did graze the car's roof, now magically closed again. We drew up at a castle, and withdrew inside. That was the last I saw of the future queens. I found myself in a dark corner overhearing a conspiracy to kill one of the three companions. The other three companions, that is - the group of wandering wits and swordsmen - my friends - that I now realised I'd always been a part of, and with whom I had come to this joint that was right out of "The Prisoner of Zenda".

View from the top. A turret large enough for a duel. A duel. Two men walk out from the castle and begin doing exactly that, as I floated down for the more earthly view. Some random few cuts, slashes, jabs, parries later it ended, with one of the men dropping his rapier, his fingers slashed off. More
precisely, there was a neat diagonal cut that had disconnected his thumb and index finger from the rest of his hand. There was no blood, leading me to believe that this was simply poor photo-montage, and the chap who'd made this flick should be shot for sheer incompetence. This bloke, younger than the other one whom I identified as one my friends, walked right up to the older man, shoved his good hand into his (my friend's) pocket, and threw away out into the grey yonder a bunch of keys. My friend laughed. I have another set, he said. Whereupon Bloke Younger attempted to repeat his strange act of defiance, but was stopped by the flat side of my friend's sword smacking into his good hand. The ensuing conversation is so singular that it merits verbatim reportage.

Friend, angry, flushed: Why are you doing this?
Bloke Younger, equally flushed: so you'd cut off my other hand as well, you've destroyed me already. i've no life with my good hand gone...
Friend, schocked, unable to say anything:
BY, daring Friend to react, waiting for the inevitable:
Friend, still shocked, mumbles: I should kill you
BY, afraid, but defiant: go ahead, it'll be easier for me that way'
Me, wondering why I'm saying this: Alexis! This is madness! Don't destroy yourself like this [This to Bloke Younger, who was apparently known to me by that name]
ALexis, looking at me: All I had was my sword arm, how will I make my way around the world now? I'm a cripple, now, ugly of the world, I can't face anyone like this
Me: You aren't. You can still learn to use your left hand. Don't throw away your life like that, you're not a coward. Go now!

[some moments of tension, with much staring down and trembling and other displays of emotional disturbance by all parties involved]

[Alexis leaves]
Friend, wistful pride apparent on his face: My son.. that's my son!

But business calls. The conspiracy (what was it exactly? I can't remember) must be thwarted. Short sequence of the two of us running to one side of the turret and onto some sort of extension. A gnome like creature, a homunculus even, apparently a flunky of the conspirators, is trussed up and made to
bear the brunt of our ridicule. Gleefully we wait the arrival of the conspirator crowd having set up part of the turret to collapse when stepped upon.

I wake up, and write this story down. I think it lasted fifteen minutes. I can't tell, really.

¹Roleplaying game, by Lionhead Studios. You play a God embodied as a ... hand ; there is no "right" way to succeed in this game